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But noisy Nonsence, and such Fops as vex
Mankind, take most with that Fantastick Sex.
This to the Praise of those who better knew;
The Many raise the value of the Few.
But here, as all our Sex too oft have try'd,
Women have drawn my wandering Thoughts aside.
Their greatest Fault who in this kind have writ,
Is not defect in words, nor want of Wit;
But should this Muse harmonious Numbers yield,
And every Couplet be with Fancy fill'd,
If yet a just Coherence be not made
Between each Thought, and the whole Model laid
So right, that every step may higher rise,
Like goodly Mountains, till they reach the Skies?
Trifles like such perhaps of late have past,
And may be lik'd a while, but never last;
'Tis Epigram, 'tis Point, 'tis what you will,
But nor an Elegy, nor Writ with Skill,
No [1]Panegyrick, nor a [2]Coopers-Hill.
A higher Flight, and of a happier Force
Are [3]Odes, the Muses most unruly Horse;
That bounds so fierce, the Rider has no rest,
But foams at Mouth, and speaks like one possest.
The Poet here must be indeed inspired,
With Fury too, as well as Fancy fired.
